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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26575723">How to Break a Mad Dog</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor'>Walor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Birds of Prey (Comic), DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Explicit Language, Humor, M/M, Post Genital Mutilation, Post-Mutilation, Victor has had better days, Watersports</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:33:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26575723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor should know that Roman always gets what he wants, no matter what it may be.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How to Break a Mad Dog</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/gifts">MissNaya</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Naya asked and by god, I rushed to deliver.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No.”<br/><br/>Zsasz blinks. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, he sees Roman idly pouring himself some more bourbon from the Rolls Royce’s backseat ice chest. There is nothing particularly telling about his expression; Zsasz might have actually imagined the response. Roman hums softly to himself, fetching two perfectly round ice balls from the chest and dropping them into his glass. Zsasz tries hard not to stare at the amber liquid.<br/><br/>“Boss?”<br/><br/>Roman doesn’t look up at him. He lifts the crystal tumbler to his mouth and drinks. No response comes. Zsasz shifts uncomfortably in the driver’s seat.<br/><br/>“Boss,” he tries again, a little louder.<br/><br/>Roman lowers the tumbler from his lips. “Christ, Victor, is it too much to ask for a little silence? Of all times for you to be chatty.”<br/><br/>He’s in a mood this morning. Doesn’t take a genius to know why; Falcone muscling in on his current laundering scheme with Rossi. Then there’s that meeting in the next hour with the remainder of the Bertinelli casino board of directors. They have a proclivity for saying no. Roman doesn’t like being told no. He hardly likes the word “no.” So Zsasz must not have heard him correctly. Or heard him say anything at all.<br/><br/>“I was just asking-” Zsasz starts. Roman cuts him off.<br/><br/>“I heard you and the answer is no.”<br/><br/>Zsasz flicks his eyes back into the rearview mirror. Roman is staring at him now, face impassive and bemused. His throat feels dry all of a sudden. He tightens his fingers around the steering wheel and tries to ignore the uneven texture of the road. Where the fuck does all of Gotham’s tax money go? Certainly not to fixing these fucking potholes.<br/><br/>“Why not?”<br/><br/>Roman curls his lip. Here’s a quick tip: don’t ask fucking questions. Don’t ask Roman “why not.” Don’t put the two together and question Roman on a decision he made, even if it is as simple as this.<br/><br/>“Because it takes you fucking half an hour to do something any other man takes a minute doing. I am not sitting in a hot car while you find a restroom to squat in and do that weird bullshit just to piss out of your mangled stump. You can fucking wait.”<br/><br/>Course, Zsasz does <em>not</em> correct Roman that the Rolls is, for one, air-conditioned so there would be no “hot car” issues. Nor, for that matter, does he say that Roman is not a baby locked in a car with no way to escape and can easily step out if it does, by chance, get warm. There is, however, the matter of the “weird bullshit” he feels the need to clarify because Roman doesn’t exactly have the same trouble when it comes to “just pissing,” seeing as his dick hasn’t been cut off.<br/><br/><em>And whose fault is that?</em> Roman asked him once. <em>I’m not the one who went gallivanting into Maroni-controlled Crime Alley to pick off Frankie Carbone like an idiot. You’re so dramatic.</em><br/><br/>“But I need to.”<br/><br/>“And I need to take a fucking shower before I meet with Vincenzo Moretti and Salvatore Gillani. Looks like we both have to wait.”<br/><br/>Zsasz purses his lips and grips the steering wheel tighter. The car dips over an uneven plate in the road from ongoing construction on the underground sewer pipes and Zsasz swears he sees damn stars. He once heard that it was possible for a person to die from holding their piss for too long. Apparently, it was some water drinking and holding competition and this broad died from water poisoning. For a second, Zsasz imagines his tombstone, which reads “Idiot Who Died From His Own Piss.” What kind of Darwin Award would he get for that? Subcategory award title, “Ignoring Nature’s Call.”<br/><br/>He thought his fate would end with a different kind of recognition. “Roman, I’m serious. I’m gonna pull over.”<br/><br/>There’s a swift kick to the back of his seat. The jolt seems to completely target his lower back and only there. Zsasz, if he were a pussy, probably would have yelped. As it stands, he is not a pussy, so he just wheezes out a strained breath. Go him.<br/><br/>“You pull over and I’ll cut off your remaining testicle. Do you understand? Nod if you do. Good.”<br/><br/>Zsasz grits his teeth hard enough he can hear them crack. He shouldn’t have helped himself to the coffee this morning at breakfast. Did he really have to stay up all night arranging Al’s insides across Amusement Mile in the shape of a mask? Which, really, did it even look like a mask? He didn’t have a drone or a camera. What if it just looked like mush, would Batman know it was their calling card? God, he should have fucking slept and not drank the coffee.<br/><br/>With a frustrated noise, he does the unimaginable. He reaches down to grab at his crotch. No one is looking at him. Roman’s in the back, he won’t see. He’s too pissed off. Fuck, don’t think about piss. Dry desert, white bread, Saltine crackers, Roman’s taste in music-<br/><br/>A surprised bark of laughter makes him squeeze himself harder. That certainly doesn’t help. Driving with only one hand on the wheel may or may not contribute to the near-miss he has with a southbound Subaru. The jolt of adrenaline, Zsasz cannot even accurately describe how that affects his bladder. Just that if he didn’t have mutilated genitals, he probably might have pissed his pants already. The retribution for ruining Roman’s leather seats probably would only be satisfied using his own skin as a replacement.<br/><br/>“Oh, Mr. Zsasz,” Roman pokes his head out from behind Zsasz’s seat. He doesn’t turn to look. Nope. Doesn’t look out of the corner of his eye to see Roman’s amused smile as he rests his chin on Zsasz’s shoulder. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”<br/><br/>He would swallow, but he’s fearful that little bit of spit might just push him over the edge. “Can I stop?”<br/><br/>Roman’s laugh tickles the lobe of his ear. “No, stupid. I told you, I am not waiting in the car.”<br/><br/>“Boss,” his voice definitely does <em>not</em> pitch a little higher. His voice also most assuredly does <em>not</em> sound even the slightest bit distressed. Not at all.<br/><br/>“Making so many demands of me this morning,” Roman sighs. There’s a little rustle of fabric, and Zsasz fights to keep his eyes on the road. Only a few more blocks until they reach the club and Roman’s apartment. That’s all he needs. The intersection light ahead turning red is a complete and utter bitch of fate, but he can do this.<br/><br/>That’s when the noise from a moment ago reveals itself. Roman’s hand loops around the seat, across Zsasz’s stomach, beneath his arm and presses down. <em>Hard</em>.<br/><br/>This time Zsasz does yelp, like the squeak of a surprised puppy. Instinctively, he grabs Roman’s wrist and pulls it off. The rolling effect from the pressure does not go away as fast as Roman’s hand does. It comes and goes in almost sharp painful waves, leaving Zsasz as breathless as he is after a good torture session. Behind him, Roman growls.<br/><br/>“You let go of my hand, <em>now</em>.”<br/><br/>“Boss, <em>please</em>,” what kind of alternate universe is this? Begging, who is she? Apparently, Zsasz still knows how to say the p-word. Imagine that.<br/><br/>“Any other time, I’d appreciate the begging.” Roman tugs his arm free, which Zsasz releases the moment the realization comes that any sudden movement would result in jostling. Absolutely would rather avoid that at all costs. “Now you’re just trying to make me angry.”<br/><br/>“You can’t do that, Roman.”<br/><br/>“Pull over.”<br/><br/>Would he still be a hideously sadistic killer if he let one tear of relief fall? That’s okay, right? The profound alleviation of being allowed to pull the car over to the sidewalk the moment he safely crosses the street? It’s like a goddamn chorus of angels the moment he puts the car in park. He goes for his seatbelt, fumbling with the button.<br/><br/>Until Roman reaches out and slaps his hand away.<br/><br/>“Boss-”<br/><br/>“I said pull over, not let yourself out of the car.” Zsasz looks up, only to have Roman’s tumbler full of bourbon shoved into his face. “Drink this.”<br/><br/>The word “<em>drink</em>” should not inspire such fear inside a man who regularly peels off the faces of crying teenagers and their parents. However, Zsasz, at this moment, feels himself go cold and clammy all over at the idea of introducing any more liquid into his body. Forget if — he <em>will</em> fucking cry if Roman’s insistence on being this cruel continues.<br/><br/>“Are you trying to get me arrested?” he says. “I’ll get fucking pulled over.”<br/><br/>Roman tilts his head, then taps his chin in consideration. “Alright, let’s pretend that this car doesn’t have fully tinted windows and all of the GCPD weren’t in my pockets. Right? Okay, now that that’s out of the way, I would like you to tell me how that, in any way, affects me.”<br/><br/>He could argue that if he’s pulled over they won’t make it back to the shower or meeting in time and Roman will be forced to sit in the car while Zsasz talks his way out of a ticket. It seems rather moot to argue semantics at this point when every minute spent conversing is another second of extreme pain from his denied bathroom need.<br/><br/>“Roman-”<br/><br/>“I really like it when you beg.” Roman’s eyes are dark, almost black with how wide his pupils are. He presses the tumbler against Zsasz’s chest. “Drink it.”<br/><br/>Roman always gets what he wants. Fighting this would only delay their arrival or cause a temper tantrum the likes of which <em>SuperNanny</em> has never seen. Zsasz just has to hold out for a few more minutes. Would that even reach his bladder by that time? No. He knows enough about biology to know that there are at least a few more organs between the stomach and the bladder.<br/><br/>He takes the crystal in hand. The condensation around it drips onto his finger in fat droplets. Zsasz feels a jolt of discomfort and he quickly shuts his eyes and throws it back. It’s more than a simple shot so it takes a few gulps to get it all down, the ice balls clacking against his nose and upper lip when he does. The bourbon stings sharply down his throat and he practically throws the tumbler into the front seat cupholder to desperately grasp at the gearshift.<br/><br/>Before he can pull away from the curb and break all sorts of speed laws to reach the club, Roman grabs his wrist.<br/><br/>“Mr. Zsasz, I want you to take a right at the next intersection.”<br/><br/>A right? But they need to take a left. A right would put them on the single-lane road of Greentree Court. There wouldn’t be another option to turn around until Rockefeller Avenue and to even get back in the right direction would mean getting onto the freeway, no doubt clogged with traffic at this time, just to get back on Main Street. He could explain all this. He could tell Roman that he could just turn on the navigation and listen to those directions, except, he’s 99.9% sure Roman knows exactly what he’s asking. He’s so sure in fact, that he nearly does start weeping if only to drain some of the water from his body in one way.<br/><br/>“Roman.”<br/><br/>Roman smiles and leans back against his seat, crossing his legs together and waving him off with a cavalier flourish. “Go on, Mr. Zsasz, I want to see the city.”<br/><br/>What else can he do but comply with Roman’s demands?<br/><br/>He switches the car into drive and, with a longing gaze, travels past the intersection and makes the right onto Greentree Court when it comes. He’s going to pass out. That’s all he can say. He’s going to keel over at the wheel and drive into traffic, and the two of them are going to die in a fiery explosion, all because Roman didn’t want to wait in the car. Zsasz can hardly imagine a more undignified death than a full-bladder-caused car accident, and he’s been Roman’s wet worker for how long?<br/><br/><em>Don’t say fucking wet, you absolute moron</em>. Zsasz sucks in a sharp breath with how badly thinking a simple word makes his entire body ache. After that, he can’t really shut his mouth. Just keeps it open, panting heavily as the car rocks over the well-worn streets of Gotham. Behind him, he can hear Roman purring like a sated tomcat.<br/><br/>“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this, Victor. So desperate.”<br/><br/>Zsasz shifts, letting himself slouch a little more in his seat. Anything to take the pressure off and even that effort risks him losing control entirely. Never before has he been so grateful for having his dick cut off. If it weren’t for the new complicated tubing put in place for his normal equipment, he’s sure this seat would have been out of commission ages ago.<br/><br/>“I don’t think I can hold on, Roman.”<br/><br/>“You can. You know why? I told you. And you’re a good boy, aren’t you? You listen to orders well enough. This is a fucking order.”<br/><br/>Except no other orders came in direct opposition with nature. How does one exactly refuse the urge to give in when it grows too fucking hard to resist? Apparently, he’s about to find out.<br/><br/>His eyes begin to sting again, and this time Zsasz allows himself to choke out a sob. He’s not a baby, mind you. Not at all. As he said, this is merely to see if letting those tears fall takes a bit of the intensity away. Certainly, not because of the humiliation of begging to be allowed to take a fucking leak in a damn alleyway like he’s two years old. <em>Oh please, papa, I’m going to wet my trousers if I don’t!</em><br/><br/>Zsasz barks out a hysterical laugh. Dear God, he’s going insane.<br/><br/>Behind him, Roman stares, fascinated.<br/><br/>“Oh, baby,” he coos. “Don’t cry.”<br/><br/>He doesn’t think he can stop now. Tears are dripping down his scarred-up cheeks and into his scruff on their own accord. Good thing Roman isn’t ordering him not to cry. At this point, stopping would probably take considerable effort. That would take concentration away from his current task of not pissing his pants. And really, as Roman said, they have fully-tinted windows. There won’t be anyone he has to hunt down and kill after this for seeing him cry in the first place.<br/><br/>It takes around another half hour to reach the back alley of the Black Mask Club. Traffic on the freeway was worse than normal; it’s almost as if Roman had not only expected it but planned this as well. Which, comparing all of Roman’s past tortures together, makes it easily the most diabolical. In fact, the next time they want to do an interrogation with a high success rate, they should just drive the victim around on a bumpy road and somehow make them incapable of relieving themselves. They’d probably crack faster than watching a loved one’s face be torn off. Honestly, Roman might be onto something here.<br/><br/>Roman makes no argument this time when Zsasz pulls into the alleyway and places the Rolls in park. Getting out of the car is another issue entirely. It turns out that moving, even slightly, is a whole other challenge. With how drastically he had to keep himself in check on the drive back, moving his body from seated to standing is enough of a punch to the gut he nearly loses it right there. Zsasz has to sit down and take a breath, gripping the dashboard and the door of the car. Roman doesn’t move. Instead, he clears his throat.<br/><br/>“I’m waiting, Mr. Zsasz.”<br/><br/>Have to get Roman out of the car. Because he doesn’t have hands, you know? Has to have the door open for him, God forbid he take the handle himself-<br/><br/>Zsasz pushes himself out of the seat in one hard shove. The rush definitely sends more than blood flushing south, and the clench of his bladder to keep it secure almost makes him vomit. Vomit! You’d think a professional assassin would have a lot more control over their bodily functions.<br/><br/>It takes a moment to compose himself, to adjust to the new angle and all the complications that come with moving and having a full tank. Opening Roman’s door helps. He’s so close to the finish line, to relief, he actually feels a fresh wave of tears fog his eyes again. Sniffling, Zsasz opens the door all the way so Roman can easily slip out of the car.<br/><br/>Roman straightens out when he gets out of the car and smiles, showing off all his perfect, white teeth.<br/><br/>“Alright, go on, then.”<br/><br/>If he weren’t in so much pain, and at risk for waddling away like a fucking penguin, he might have bolted. Taken off like the Flash up the stairs and into the privacy of his own restroom where he could shower off all the tears when he finished business. Unfortunately, it looks like gingerly making his way upstairs like a fucked stripper is the way it’s going to be.<br/><br/>He turns, making his way around the front of the car and to the club’s back entrance door.<br/><br/>“Where are you going?”<br/><br/>Zsasz stops. He looks back to where Roman is, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He motions to the door.<br/><br/>“You said-”<br/><br/>“Well, I didn’t say you could go <em>upstairs</em>, did I? I said, ‘Go on, then.’”<br/><br/>Zsasz looks around at the expense of the alleyway. It’s barren, open, and empty save for the building’s giant dumpster pressed against the far end near the opening. “But the restroom is-”<br/><br/>“I thought you had to go, didn’t you? So do it.” Roman mimics Zsasz’s look around the alleyway. “Frankly, I don’t care where you do your business. Just do it.”<br/><br/>Now Zsasz feels a little flustered. There are tears still dripping down his cheeks, and his face feels sunburn hot, and every second arguing is another jolt of fresh pain. Zsasz actually starts to fucking shift his weight from side to side. He’s doing the goddamn piss dance.<br/><br/>“Roman-”<br/><br/>“I’m not risking my second in command wetting his damn pants like a child in front of all my guests and staff. You said you needed to go. Now go.”<br/><br/>The little period at the end of that statement is an audible, no more buts, daddy’s talking, finish. Zsasz will not be going upstairs. Not that he needs a restroom, okay, it’s just, if he has the option, he kinda likes the support an actual toilet gives him. Because unlike everyone else with a working urinary tract, Zsasz lost his years ago. Which means squatting is a necessity, not a preference.<br/><br/>His face gets hotter as he looks around for the best privacy he can afford in a wide-open alleyway. Anyone can peek in and see him. Anyone could walk out of the club and see him. He needs at least some illusion of modesty.<br/><br/>Ducking his head, trying to avoid Roman’s stare, he ducks behind the back of the Royce, hands going to his belt hoping to just get it over with. Roman follows him, standing mere inches away, as Zsasz slips his zipper down and then pulls his pants and boxers to his knees.<br/><br/>Roman snorts. “When you told me it was different, I didn’t think having to get bare was part of it.”<br/><br/>Zsasz growls. “Shut up. Stop talking.”<br/><br/>“You say something like that to me again, and I will bring you onto the stage and have you piss your pants there. Don’t fucking test me, Victor.”<br/><br/>Right. He’ll just be silent. That’s as good of a warning as any. Zsasz bites his tongue to keep from adding any smart comment onto that sentence. About how a second ago, Roman didn’t want anyone seeing him wetting himself. Probably wouldn’t end that well for him if he tried.<br/><br/>His knees crack as he squats down, closing his eyes and fighting hard to ignore Roman’s presence beside him. It doesn’t help, of course, because Roman isn’t a very silent person.<br/><br/>“Christ, you have to squat too? I feel like I’m a fucking father looking out for creeps while his daughter pisses in the woods.”<br/><br/>Zsasz grits his teeth, hands coming up to grip the edge of his knees to keep his balance. The funniest part--and by funny he actually means the worst--is that now that he’s squatting, the catheter that’s replaced his urethra must be pressed together. How does he know that? Because he tries to let go of his bladder to finally relieve himself of the pain and embarrassment of having Roman watch, and nothing happens.<br/><br/>Maybe he can ask for a box of tissues from the Rolls. This is a sadder story than the dumb dog movie. He’s a second away from turning into a girl that got passed over for prom queen.<br/><br/>A minute passes. Then two. Then three. The only sounds between them are the distant horns and sirens from Gotham traffic and the muffled music coming from the club itself. Zsasz’s throat goes dry and he swallows thickly, trying to keep himself from panicking about not being able to piss.<br/><br/>“Do you need a reminder? I said you could go.”<br/><br/>Zsasz shifts a little onto one foot, raising up a little at an angle to see if that helps. It doesn’t. Roman huffs above him.<br/><br/>“I always wondered why women take so long in restrooms. Before I thought it was all that narcissistic looking they do at themselves in the mirror. Apparently, I was wrong.”<br/><br/>“I’m not a fuckin’ woman, boss.”<br/><br/>“Then why haven’t you gone yet? With the way you were acting, I thought you were about to die.”<br/><br/>Zsasz still feels like he’s about to die. Humiliation or water poisoning are at war for who's taking him to Hell first. “It’s harder than it looks.”<br/><br/>“<em>Clearly</em>.”<br/><br/>“I thought you wanted to shower before the meeting. I’ll join you when I’m done.”<br/><br/>“And leave you alone for some pervert to stumble across? Mr. Zsasz, I wouldn’t <em>dream</em> of it.”<br/><br/>Says the pervert watching him. Zsasz rubs his eyes against his shirt sleeve to wipe away the tears still clumping together on his lashes.<br/><br/>“It would be easier if you weren’t watching.” He lets out a shaky breath. “It’s embarrassing.”<br/><br/>“If I don't, how will I know if my little girl needs my help?”<br/><br/>Zsasz’s breath catches in his throat. “I’m not a little girl.”<br/><br/>“So you’ve said, pumpkin.” Roman’s voice practically trills behind him. “Fine. Listen, baby, tell you what. You ask daddy nicely, and I’ll turn around. That good enough for you?”<br/><br/>It’s better than nothing. Zsasz is bound to pass out if this goes on any longer with how dizzy the pain’s starting to make him. He could have finished minutes ago if Roman just let him use the upstairs restroom. That fact isn’t lost on him, especially with how upset his stomach is the longer he suffers and wallows like this.<br/><br/>It’s for that reason that he probably doesn’t try and give a lukewarm plea in the first place. Desperation can make a man do many things -- Zsasz has a lot of experience with that, of course. It does, however, take some time to slick his mouth with enough spit to even speak in the first place. His voice comes out shaky and distressed with just how badly the urge to finish has overtaken his thoughts.<br/><br/>“Please,” he chokes out. “Daddy, please don’t look, <em>please</em>.”<br/><br/>Above him, Roman groans. “Oh baby girl, of course, I won’t.”<br/><br/>Zsasz listens, entirely focused on Roman’s presence. He hears the soft rustle of fabric brushing against each other and the click of shoes on concrete. The most important detail, however, is the sudden overwhelming sensation of relief, of having Roman’s burning eyes off his back, that he sighs. With that sighs finally comes the release of all the pressure in his bladder, and he relieves himself, trembling with the tidal wave of satisfaction that comes. The pain remains a moment longer until he’s near completely finished, body trembling through it all.<br/><br/>He does have to shift a little when he abruptly stops, the curse of a fake urinary tract to adjust and continue. By the time he’s empty, he’s shivering, cold from the tears and his bare skin exposed to late fall Gotham air.<br/><br/>It takes a second for him to stand, knees popping as he does, yanking his pants up and quickly righting himself. When he turns around, his breath catches in his throat.<br/><br/>Roman’s back is to him, he would have felt Roman’s eyes if it wasn’t. Peeking over his shoulder, however, is the top of Roman’s cellphone, the red light of the camera blinking right at him.<br/><br/>His boss purrs. “That’s daddy’s good girl.”<br/><br/></p>
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